


To The Imperfect Stories We Tell

by Maple_Maypole



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Artist Hamid AU, Post-Canon, mind the discussions of loss, rest assured its all very soft! but stay safe, we thinkin bout the impact of love and connection Tonight!, we thinkin bout the impermanence of memory tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Maypole/pseuds/Maple_Maypole
Summary: Hamid finds an old sketchbook.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Azu
Comments: 20
Kudos: 34





	To The Imperfect Stories We Tell

The sketchbook is small and thoroughly waterlogged, with all its pages wrinkled and half the cover gone, a burn scarred all across the front of the bulky leather. 

Hamid picks it up, wrestling it free from where it sat at the bottom of a newspaper pile, and leans away from the box he was rummaging through. He makes a thoughtful little noise in the back of his throat, turning the book in his hands. He opens it with a careful movement, absentmindedly running his thumb over the page, feeling its peculiar texture. Even through the damage, he can still see the strokes marking the first page- in neat and rounded lines, sitting there on the top-right corner, a date stares back at him.

Hamid’s hand stills.

He stands, looking over the mess of objects and memories laid out before him. Trinkets, books, clothes, gifted or bought or found, all the little bits and pieces of the lives he’s lived and the things he’s built, ordered in an assortment of less-than-neat piles.  


He sighs.

Saving the world isn’t really something you can do once and then take your leave. He seems to never stop learning this, as time moves forward in an unstoppable stream that catches him by the ankles. He goes with it, of course, caught in the flow of days and weeks and months and years. Anniversaries, birthdays, smiles and tears, gifts- both material and not- all pile up into a complex hoard of memories right at the center of everything he is. Precious and fragile, Hamid saves his world again and again, and every time he opens his eyes in the morning he knows he’s not the only one. He knows what he needs to do, and he’s more than willing. He is.

But sometimes, sometimes you need a little break. Sometimes you need to do a little spring cleaning even though you’re smack-dab in the middle of autumn. To de-stress.

And sometimes, while you're rummaging through a box of old newspapers, you find something that could by all accounts be considered a relic.  


Hamid looks at the sketchbook. He sighs again, softer, and steps away from the piles.

-

He takes the sketchbook to the dinner table, sets it down with gentle hands, and takes a deep breath.  


He turns the first page.

It’s a little underwhelming, really, a small doodle of a tree tucked into a corner. Below it, with a big splash of water taking the ink away from a quarter of the page, it reads:

_“Cast nea Sati v ”_

Hamid smiles, a little lopsided. He turns to the next page.

His face. He gave up halfway through. He turns the page.

A sunset shining over a city- the colors are faded, but the old buildings are still recognizable in all their sketchy, structurally unsound glory. He turns the page with a bit of a wince.

Another tree. This one has a smile on it.

Here, he’s drawn a little dragon. There, he’s drawn a street sign. A busy market. A cat. A pigeon.

Saira, smiling.

His own face again and again, always unfinished, sometimes furiously scrawled on.

Little notes litter the pages. Thoughts cut off by time and damage are nestled between sketches of innocuous, daily things, and he almost doesn’t realize he’s smiling.

He turns the page to find another crowd scene, all the little silhouettes craning their necks to see something he didn’t bother drawing. His eyes drift over the page, a lazy feeling of familiarity sparking in his gut, when he notices someone staring back at him amongst the crowd of people made of ink and graphite smudges. There’s an apprehensive, questioning look in her eyes. 

They’re sharp, bright, and looking straight at him.

Hamid has drawn Sasha many times- paintings and sketches and rendered little nothings he holds in drawers and presses in books, small captured memories he treasures more than gold. He doesn’t remember drawing this one, her outlines blending into the crowd even when the glint in those alert, mistrusting eyes seems to jump out of the page.

Dimly, Hamid realizes that he’s holding the first drawing he ever did of Sasha Racket.

He swallows.

Hamid has drawn Sasha many times and so, when he looks at this page, he can’t help but fixate in all the little ways it’s… _wrong._

She’s too short. Her hair is too long. Her nose isn’t the right shape. Her jacket is too shiny.

But the more he looks, the more Hamid notices something else. He feels something deep and uncomfortable spark in his gut, a chill spread across the nape of his neck. He thinks about all the other drawings he has made.

He slowly, carefully, tears his eyes away from the page.

Hamid sets the sketchbook down.

He pictures Sasha in his head. Something in his chest clenches in a way that has been softened with time, but never lessened. The room around him suddenly feels very empty, and very cold, and Hamid feels very, very alone. His hands clench around nothing.

If he focuses hard enough, Hamid can hear Sasha’s voice in his head. Even after all these years, Hamid is _sure_ he can hear her.

He doesn’t try right now. Just in case.

He closes the sketchbook.

-

Days later, he is sitting on the couch with Azu. The stars shine brightly outside his window and the fresh nocturnal breeze whistles around the trees, but inside it’s warm and comfortable. Music floats softly around them.

She doesn’t visit as much anymore but -try as they might- distance, time and responsibilities don’t seem to manage to make the two of them into strangers. Whenever she comes over, or whenever he drops by, they fall into their easy and comfortable patterns with as much simplicity as taking a breath.

Hamid takes the last sip of his wine and lowers the empty cup, still holding it in his hand. He fills his lungs with air and rests his head on Azu’s shoulder. He exhales, slowly.

“Are you alright, Hamid?” She asks, lightly setting her own mug on the coffee table in front of them. “You have been a little quiet.”

“Yes, no, I- I’ve just been… thinking”, He says without looking up. His voice hasn’t changed that much with the years, the high, melodic pitch dropping just a bit and becoming something slightly smoother, rounder. Azu stays quiet, lets him compose his thoughts before continuing. “I found an old sketchbook while cleaning. An _old_ sketchbook, from before I even met Zolf or, or anyone.”

He can feel how Azu tilts her head a little, can imagine the gentle interest in her expression. Time and effort have chased away some of the sadness in her eyes, softened them into something beautiful and earnest and just a bit worried. He raises his head and sees the way they look at him now, overflowing with kindness. Despite himself, Hamid feels his throat tighten.

He looks back down and steadies himself against the warmth of her shoulder- she’s wearing a comfortable sweater, sleeves bunched up near her elbows, soft against his cheek.

“I-I found it, right, and at first it just had some- some random sketches. It was a little cool to see them, even if my skills were pretty wonky, back then- but that’s not the point. It had a drawing of... Sasha, I think maybe the first one I ever did.”

Azu hums quietly but doesn’t say anything. He carries on, gesticulating a little with his hands.

“And it didn’t look like her, you know? It was… It had all the details wrong, which I suppose makes sense since by then I had only known her for a couple hours, maybe, but it… It also _did_ look like her. Or it felt like her. It had some stuff that all the new drawings and- and things, things they don’t have anymore.” He lets his hands drop. “And now I’m just... worried.”

Azu frowns. “Worried that you’re forgetting her?”

“No, no, I don’t… I don’t think I could ever forget her. But…” He takes a shaky breath. Azu carefully grabs the wine glass out of his hand and goes to refill it, so he leans away and watches her do it. There is such care in every movement, so much attention in the way she lifts the bottle, pours the wine, gives it back to him. She looks him in the eye when she does so, and Hamid has to swallow against the lump in his throat before continuing.

“I’m worried it’s not her anymore. I’m worried I’ve- I’ve made someone up, and now I’ll never get the chance to see _her._ It’s... It's always gonna be imperfect, and there's nothing I can _do_ about it.”

She looks away momentarily, leans back again after grabbing her own mug. Their sides are pressed comfortably together, warm and reassuring. She reaches for the free hand resting on his lap and holds it gently. Silence stretches on for a moment as she thinks.

“I don’t think…” She pauses. His hand looks very small in hers. “I don’t think it’s possible to have a perfectly accurate memory of someone, Hamid.”

“No, I _know_ that. I know- it’s just…” He trails off and looks up at her, nearly pleading. 

_Memories are all we have left, Azu._ He doesn’t say it outloud, but he doesn’t need to. He knows she hears it and he knows she feels it, too. Sees it in the ways her eyes move to take in the room, feels it in the way her hand closes around his just a little tighter, hears it in the deep breath she takes as she looks back to him. _It feels like losing her all over again._

There is a pause.

“I think" She says, "that might be the point." 

She shifts a little so that she’s facing him and raises her free hand. She places it on her own chest, locking eyes with Hamid. She then moves it so it's resting- ever so gentle- on top of Hamid’s heart. For a moment that seems suspended in time, she doesn’t say anything. She just looks at him, and her eyes are beautiful.

“What is?” He asks, quietly.

“They’re here. _Our_ memories.”

She lowers her hand and leaves it on top of Hamid’s.

“Just that.”

He shifts his hand so that their fingers intertwine.

“Just that,” he repeats, barely above a whisper.

All theirs, all them.

They raise their cups and make a toast.

**Author's Note:**

> God, I love writing.  
> Redstring gang, I owe you all my life. From the bottom of my heart: thank you.  
> And thank you for reading <3  
> Comments are always, always appreciated!


End file.
